


Something To Believe In

by LyraRaineSparrow



Series: In A Song [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ana's still depressed, Angst, and a little happiness, but there's a baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:46:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1892667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraRaineSparrow/pseuds/LyraRaineSparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Saturdays, she works as a bartender. It's the same bar that he'd been drugged at the night they met. She didn't have the willpower to quit. And somehow she managed to pull herself together long enough for the five hour shift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something To Believe In

**Author's Note:**

> So basically this was meant to be the prologue of the sequel, well, at first it was a timestamp I hadn't planned on finishing until after the sequel was finished, but then it was the prologue. And long story short, I fell asleep last night thinking that the story sort of hand two prologues and so you guys get this. Hope you don't mind.
> 
> The title comes from, of course, the song of the same name by Parachute. It's really not as angsty as this though.

" _You wake up every morning looking for your answer_   


_You're waiting for your sign  
While Jeremiah's on his way to tell the people  
But you watch him pass you by_"

A French manicured hand slips out from beneath a ratty overused comforter and hits the snooze button on the old alarm resting on a mahogany bedside table. When the music pauses, it slithers back into place. The owner of the hand nuzzling further into the mass of pillows surrounding them.

The second time the alarm goes off, the hand presses the off button as it's twin tosses the blanket off a pair of blue pinstriped pajamas. Two bare pedicured feet touch the rug covering the floor of the small flat.

She chose it because of the softness, but now it seemed rough and scratchy and entirely too wrong. Everything felt wrong these days.

In the shower she catches herself humming and she starts to cry.

He's gone, she remembers, and he wasn't coming back. Dead.

Somehow she manages to get through her routine and out the door with a plastered smile. Everyone glances at her, out of the corner of their eyes, because they know. The heard it all, read it all. She just struggles with the smile. But She breaks when she's alone and sobs until her icy eyes have run out of tears.

It's only been two months. She can still see his figure lying cold on the pavement. It haunts her every time her eyes flutter shut.

Like now as she picks up the sheet music after the piano lessons, her last student of had just left, bouncing ahead of his mother in a green sweater and jeans, his dark brown curls dancing on his head as he complains that she's not going fast enough, because "The game is on, mummy, and I'm missing it."

The tears fall silently, leaving little dark spots on the papers. The wound is still too fresh.

And then it hits her.

It's been two months.

* * *

On Saturdays, she works as a bartender. It's the same bar that he'd been drugged at the night they met. She didn't have the willpower to quit. And somehow she managed to pull herself together long enough for the five hour shift.

It's just after ten when she gets out of work. The sky has already darkened, and the London sky line twinkles in her eye as she walks home. She's been doing that a lot, walking home. The fastest route took her past Bart's so she takes the longer route. She can use the fresh air anyway.

It's late when she finally opens the front door. She'd greeted by stairs. She's traveled those stairs so many times. She knows the entire layout of the flat above her. Better that she knows her own.

Is John still living there? Has he moved yet? Are  _his_ things still there?

* * *

She didn't know what she expected. She was three months late and she'd gained five pounds.

_Eh, six_ , she hears him argue with her,  _and that's being generous_.

The weight she blamed on her actually eating for once.

She hadn't wanted to believe at first but then she made an appointment and lo' and behold she was pregnant.

The next six or seven months go by far too fast.

John's named the godfather, and Molly the godmother. She doesn't talk to anyone else, there's an occasional phone call every now and then, but Ana's always happy afterward so no one says anything.

Sometime during her third trimester is when things get interesting. The first of which is she's chosen a name, although she still refuses to tell anyone the gender of the child. Mycroft finally decided to show his face, and there something about how he treats Anabeth, that tells her he  _knows_. It's just what he knows that she doesn't understand.

Also, she's begun to look at home in the US once again. Still in the south, still on the East Coast, although not in DC nor Virginia. She wasn't stupid enough to move back near the family she'd become estranged with. She thought Savannah for a while, but then thought better of it.

And then she found a rather large Spanish-style courtyard home that she fell in love with. It cost a pretty penny (for 4,896 square foot, of course it did) that took a huge chunk of her savings to buy outright but she managed.

And perhaps it was a little much for just her and her child, but she's always wanted a big family. The house was her promise to herself that she would have it. Plus, it was a great place for hosting parties. That much she found out, even if it was a smaller party than she had hoped.

Her baby shower guests had only consisted of Molly Hooper, Hannah, Mrs. Hudson, Mary Morstan (John's newest girlfriend who had come on his behalf, but that was okay because they hit it off immediately because Ana  _knew_ ), her Nema and her neighbor, Destiny, a 32-year-old single mother with a sixteen year-old daughter named Daisha. Also Anthea had popped in, on behalf of "Uncle" Mycroft, for a spell before she left with some excuse.

And perhaps, best of all, it was the biggest "Fuck You," to her family she could have, not inviting them that is, with out actually spray painting it on the side of her parents house (yes, she actually debated doing so).

And once everyone had left and she sat alone in the nursery (gender neutral colors, she was adamant about not letting anyone know the sex), her hand on her swollen belly as she sat and rocked herself to sleep, she couldn't help but to feel more loved than she ever was in that moment. Things were changing, and they were doing so rapidly, but maybe it was for the best.

* * *

Payton Hamish Holmes was born on 21 March 2012 at 7:35 in the afternoon, a healthy 8 pounds and 4 ounces. She had been in London the last trimester, wanting to be near her new family the closer her due date came, so her room was filled with visitors at all hours until she was released, her son seemed to love the attention.

She stayed with Mrs. Hudson until her baby was clear to fly, even then she decided to stay an extra week at Mrs. Hudson's asking.

God, did she hate bureaucratic BS, because the moment she came into the embassy to claim her son's US citizenship, she was greeted too warmly ("Miss Quinn, don't you look lovely today." " _Actually, it's Moriarty now._ " "Is this your son? He's precious. How's your father? I haven't heard from him since I worked as the State Department." " _How should I know? I haven't spoken to him in nine months._ " "Which one are you again?" " _The youngest._ " "Oh! Anabeth! When did you start going by your first name?" " _Nine months ago_." "Well, isn't that sweet.") and things went far too smoothly.

But then they were bound for Charlotte, and things settled into a perfect rhythm and well, that's that.


End file.
